Golden Goose
by meaty.demon.babey
Summary: "A fledgling will never learn to fly if it isn't first pushed from the nest." That's what Artemis Sr. says when he sends his son, Artemis II, on a simple mission in Russia. But when things go awry, Artemis is kidnapped. It is up to Artemis Sr. to get his son back, and it is up to Artemis II to deal with things his own way. Abandoned.
1. Journals 1

_Thursday, 12:53 AM_

 _We sent Artemis on his way yesterday morning at about two o'clock, along with his Butler and a few of my most trusted men to oversee his departure. Angeline was heartbroken to see him go, as mothers are want to do, but I told her that a fledgling will never learn to fly if it isn't first pushed from the nest. She found no comfort in this analogy, which is why I am currently writing at this godforsaken hour. Her weeping started some time after ten o'clock and has gone nonstop since. Little Juliet is currently trying to console her in the master bathroom, as my attempts have borne no fruit._

 _Juliet says that Angeline is terrified that our Jr. will be hurt on this endeavor, but I doubt that is the true source of her distress. Any rational thought would lead her to the conclusion that our son, as the children say nowadays, has got it in the bag. It's a simple task, requiring little more than just being in the right place at the right time. No, it is my belief that she is just sad to see him mature into a young man, embrace our family tradition, and become overall less entwined with her own life. I recall my own mother becoming emotional when I first became a part of my father's exploits, so many years ago._

 _It seems her crying has stopped now, so I suppose that means it is time at last to settle down. Artemis should send us a message tomorrow when he reaches the checkpoint. Perhaps that will bring Angeline some joy._

 _Friday, 3:32 PM_

 _We received an encoded email this afternoon. My Butler deciphered it and reported that Artemis and the shipment have reached the Oslo checkpoint without issue. It was signed from Artemis's Butler, and contained few details pertaining to how our boy was faring, but did mention he had hit a spot of seasickness. Angeline was in fits after reading that, insisting that we should have known better than to put Artemis on a boat, of all things. Her hysterics were short-lived though, for after Juliet described a picture of Artemis as a weathered and scurvy-ridden old sailor, she saw some humor in the situation._

 _With luck, he'll reach St. Petersburg soon to drop off the shipment. If all goes well, he'll be with us again before next week._

 _Angeline will be so relieved, and I will be relieved that my son is competent enough to perform such a simple task._

 _Saturday, 9:13 PM_

 _We have received no word from the St. Petersburg checkpoint. Little Juliet says Artemis has likely forgotten, or botched the job so badly he cannot face me. Neither seem likely, in my opinion or in Angeline's. She's gone gray with worry. My Butler is trying to establish contact, thus far to no avail._

 _I tell Angeline that the ship has likely veered off course._

 _Monday, 10:33 AM_

 _Over breakfast, my Butler informed us of an encoded email from one of our contacts in Russia._

 _My son is dead._


	2. Artemis II

He couldn't tell if it was the cold, the claustrophobic space, or the way his head jostled back and forth that woke him. All he knew was that he had no clue where he was, who he was with, or why he was tied up.

He squinted in the low light. He was surrounded by blobs – men – dressed in heavy coats who stank of booze and smoke and sweat. There was one next to him, and two in front. They were in a car, he guessed by the way the clumps of brown and white moved just through the window.

" _On bodrstvuyet,"_ said the man next to him.

" _Sdelay chto-nibud',"_ snapped one of the men in the front row of the car – he couldn't tell which one.

The one next to him leaned over, breathing hot cigarette-breath on his face. " _Lozhit'sya spat',"_ he said, his form obscuring his vision.

He was about to open his mouth to ask what he was saying, where they were going, anything, but he was cut off by a rag being shoved into his mouth. It stank of chemicals and tasted worse, but before he got a chance to properly object, he was out.

-O-

When he woke again, things were a bit clearer. He remembered his name was Artemis Fowl II. He remembered that he came to Russia to hand a shipment of contraband off to the local mob. He remembered the shootout. And he remembered his Russian.

Artemis observed the room he was in. It was small, with rusted iron walls and a barren gray floor. The door was a circular port, the frame attached to the wall with bolts. Underneath the metallic stench of rust was something salty, leading Artemis to guess he was being kept in the hull of a ship.

He grimaced. That's what he needed. More ships. At least it didn't seem to be moving at all.

Artemis twisted around in his seat. His hands were bound with rope and tied behind the back of a chair. He tried to wriggle his hands loose, to no avail, and after five or so minutes, he was already exhausted again.

His throat grew tight and his eyes wet. He ached, he was freezing, and hungry, and thirsty, and he didn't even know when he last used the bathroom – he was in a strange place tied to a chair and he had no idea where Butler was or if he was even alive.

Artemis bit his lip, but it did nothing to stop the tears now streaming down his cheeks.

 _Idiot, stop crying! What if Father saw you in this state?_

That stopped the tears. He sniffed, willing himself to be calm. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the cold and the hunger and the fear out of his head.

If he ever managed to do so, he wasn't conscious enough to enjoy it. He passed out again.

-O-

Artemis was in the middle of enjoying his dream about absolutely nothing when someone grabbed him by the front of his coat and yanked him to his feet and effectively out of his slumber.

It was the same man who had shoved the rag in his mouth in the car. This time he was dragging Artemis by the collar out of his little prison and down a narrow hallway. Artemis's boots squeaked and scraped against the floor as he struggled to keep up, but the man paid no heed to it.

They reached a staircase and Artemis was hoisted up like little more than a sack of potatoes.

"Where are you taking me?" Artemis asked before he could think twice about it.

The man didn't answer. He opened a hatch over his head, and sunlight spilled onto them. There had been a window in Artemis's prison, but it had been small, and covered with grime. To suddenly be showered with actual, clear sunlight was a painful visual assault. Artemis cringed away from it, but the man kept going.

For a moment, Artemis thought he was blind. As he squinted at the world around him, the bottom of his stomach dropped out as it dawned on him where they were. Alone, on some WWI-era ship, frozen in a lake, likely hundreds of miles from civilization, in a northern arctic wasteland.

The man gave him a tug, and Artemis had no choice but to follow.

A makeshift ramp took them to the frozen ground. The snow had been packed low and dense by frequent use, and would have been as slick as an ice rink if not for the numerous imperfections created by the bottoms of men's boots. The man led Artemis down a sort of path, around the hull of the ship. It wasn't a lengthy walk, but felt as though it took forever.

Finally, they came to a stop where the ice met with liquid water, against the side of the ship. Patches of yellow spotted the area, making it look muddy compared to the stark white landscape. The man slashed the ropes around Artemis's wrists, and gave him a shove. Artemis stumbled a few steps, then looked back at the man, bewildered.

"Piss," said the man through a heavy accent.

"I... I'm sorry?"

"Piss!" the man snarled. He pulled a gun out of his coat pocket and aimed it at Artemis's head.

Artemis spun around and began fumbling with his zipper. It was much more difficult than it should have been, between his stiff, frozen fingers and being held at gunpoint, but before long Artemis had added another yellow stain to the mirage of piss-puddles dotted around the snow.

Almost before he'd zipped his pants back up, the man had him by the collar again and was dragging him back to the ship.

"Hang on, what is this place?" Artemis blurted. "What am I doing here? Who are you people?"

The man didn't answer. Now that his eyes were adjusted, his bladder was empty, and he didn't have the barrel of a gun pressed against his back, Artemis noticed a long, garish scar stretched across the man's face. Artemis had seen facial deformities and injuries before, in books and on the internet, and many much worse than this man's. But something about this scar made Artemis shrink inside of himself. Maybe because it belonged to the man who just threatened to shoot him for not pissing fast enough.

The man took him back to his little prison. It was different than before – someone had put up a cot with a pillow and a few blankets. Laying upon it was a small journal with a faux-leather cover and a ballpoint pen.

"Boss is good to you because you are a child," grunted the man with the scar. He spoke so suddenly that Artemis nearly leaped out of his skin. He peered over his shoulder at the man, who fixed him with a steely gaze. "Make no mistake. If you do not cooperate, you will be stand naked in this room for days in the cold. No food. No light. Only darkness and rats."

He leaned in, close. Close enough for Artemis to smell his foul cigarette-breath. "Be good. Maybe you live that way," he said.

The man with the scar turned and left, slamming the circular door behind him.


	3. A Curious Girl

_Monday, 7:14 PM_

 _Today marks a full month since my son's disappearance at St. Petersburg. My sources insist he is dead, but I've found myself growing increasingly skeptical of this. In a month, they've recovered no body, no blood, nothing of his that would indicate that my Artemis was specifically murdered by those traitors. It is just as likely, if not more so – as little Juliet said to my Angeline this evening – that Artemis was abducted. That is to say, still alive. She's a good girl, that Juliet. Level-headed, unlike a certain other woman in this house._

 _Angeline has scarcely left her bed since the bad news. She speaks only to Juliet, my Butler, and our personal maid. She has not spoken to me, except for a few moments directly after reading the email telling of our son's apparent dark fate. I believe she blames me._

 _If I am responsible for my son's disappearance, so will I be for his safe return. I am speaking today with Nathan O'Riley, a survivor of the incident at St. Petersburg, and the apprentice of one of my late hired hands. The hospital has finally deemed him well enough to receive visitors. I intend to make full use of their prerogative._

-O-

"How long will you be gone?" asked Juliet, walking in stride with Artemis Sr. and Mr. Butler as they exited the front doors of the manor and made their way down the front steps.

"Not long, dear," said Artemis Sr. glancing at his watch as Mr. Butler broke off and headed out to check the car for any malfunctions. "A few hours to get to the hospital, a few to interrogate Mr. O'Riley, and a few getting back. Tack care of my Angeline, would you?"

Juliet nodded, her blonde pigtails bobbing like bicycle streamers in the wind. Artemis Sr. hated when Juliet wore her hair like that. It made her look far more girlish than she truly was. Even at fourteen, Artemis Sr. was of the opinion that Juliet was a strapping young woman, and ought to present herself as such. Long skirts, oxfords, and her hair tied up or styled down. None of this running shorts and pigtails business she was so enamored with.

Something to bring up to her brother if he turned out to be alive.

"Sir," said Mr. Butler, returning to them, "the car is ready."

"Excellent," Artemis Sr. said. He turned to Juliet. "Remember, if my Angeline does get too – how to put it? - _emotional,_ a glass of the '56 and an alprazolam will help her rest."

Juliet chewed her lip, obviously not thinking wine and prescription drugs were the best solution to a woman fretting over the loss of her only child, but she didn't contest it. "I mean, okay, I guess," Juliet said. "Just don't get yourself killed before you find the bastards who took Arty, 'kay?"

Artemis Sr. smiled. "'Kay," he said.

She squinted her eyes at him, two pitch-dark pools of blue, as deep and cold as an arctic sea. "And about my brother..."

Artemis Sr. nodded. "If he has been abducted as well, he will be returned to you. If he's dead, we'll be sure to see the one responsible-"

"I want him," Juliet said, cutting him off.

Artemis Sr.'s eyebrows fluttered up to his hairline. "Your... brother?"

"If he's dead, I want the sonuvabitch who killed him. No court. No lawyers. No gulag or wherever the heck you would've sent him otherwise," Juliet said. Her eyes burned. "He's _mine._ All mine."

He could only nod. Juliet was a curious girl, for sure.

"Sir," said Mr. Butler again. "We have to leave soon if we want to arrive before visiting hours at the hospital are over."

It was as if Juliet Butler had put Artemis Sr. under a spell, and good old Mr. Butler had broken it. He cleared his throat, choosing not to get roped into another belated farewell with Juliet and heading straight for the car. Mr. Butler held the door for him, and closed it once he was seated.

Artemis Sr. watched Juliet standing on the front steps as Mr. Butler drove out of the driveway. He fixated on her in the rear-view mirror, deciding that however proper she might have looked in pleated skirts and oxfords, the running shorts weren't too hard on the eyes either.

He shook his head, as if doing so could shake off thoughts of Juliet and replace them for appropriate thoughts about his wife and, more pressingly, Nathan O'Riley. Artemis Sr. reached for the briefcase on the floor. He popped it open on his lap and delved back into thorough research about the lone survivor of his son's abduction.


	4. The Ballad of Nathan O'Riley

Nathan felt fantastic. Better than fantastic, actually – the few weeks since the shootout had been the best days of his life. He'd always been a sickly child, plagued with infection after infection, cold after cold, with brittle bones and a weak stomach. Even when he wasn't actively ill, fatigue plagued him like a demon, whispering in his ear to lay down, close his eyes, and never wake up. How nice would that be? To just sleep, sleep, sleep forever.

His health had improved as he grew older, of course, and at the ripe old age of sixteen, he was almost a functional human.

Almost. The fatigue never left him. It kept Nathan from holding a job, taking care of his mother, or going to school. At some point he stopped wanting money to buy medication, and just wanted to have a nice soft bed for him to fall down on, and awaken in rested and spry.

Soon he stopped longing for that as well, and just wished he were dead.

That was when Cedric Mallory found him.

-O-

It was two years ago, after Nathan had first tried to kill himself. He was sitting in the psych ward, neck held stiff with a brace where he'd tried to hang himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thought. He should have asked his mate Larry for his dad's shotgun. Thinking this made Nathan's stomach squirm. No, he didn't want poor Larry to feel responsible. That was one of the worst things about trying to kill yourself, in Nathan's opinion. You had to do it alone.

They were going to release him, at least. His mom had grown restless not being near him all of the time, and the hospital was reasonably sure she would keep a close enough eye on him to keep him from doing anything drastic. Not that Nathan would, anyway. It was so much work.

"Ready to go, mate?" asked someone just outside of Nathan's vision.

Nathan jumped a bit. His eyes darted to his watch, then they scoured his periphery for the man who'd spoken. "Sorry? I thought we weren't supposed to leave until four o'clock," said Nathan. He wished he could turn his head to see who had spoken. He certainly didn't sound like a nurse. Maybe a sailor.

The man chuckled, still well outside of Nathan's field of vision.

"I ain't taking you to that shithole you call a house, boy. I mean go away, from here. From this shitty little life o' yours," he said.

A shadow passed over Nathan's head as the man reached over, and a yellow folder dropped into his lap. Across the top it was labeled "OFFER" in tidy letters. Nathan's eyebrows twitched. "What is this?" he asked. He picked up the folder as if it would explode if he mishandled it.

"A job, mate. You 'aven't got anything to lose, have you? Want a better life? It shouldn't take long, nor much effort on your part. Pay's good. You could fix yer mum's car. Change out those awful drapes in the living room. Maybe get yerself a little something nice to make life a little bit more bearable. Doesn't that sound nice?" said the man.

Even though his neck was pretty much broken, Nathan could still feel it tingle as the man spoke. "How do you know about the awful drapes?" Nathan demanded.

"I know a lot of shit, mate."

 _Fair enough._ Nathan opened the folder, eyes narrowing as he read through the contents. It was as the man said. Simple, good pay. Go from point A to point B, exchange the box for the briefcase, go to point C, get paid.

"When you get to the storehouse, tell 'em Cedric Mallory sent ya," said the man in Nathan's ear.

Nathan jerked his whole body around to see the man – Cedric Mallory? A lackey of his? - but he was already walking away. All he saw before the man slammed the door to his room was the back of a bald head covered with tattoos.

Nathan settled back down in his chair, and turned his eyes back to the folder. Simple. Easy pay. Get rid of the awful drapes.

It was Nathan's first job and it went off without a hitch. He borrowed Larry's dad's car, brought the box to the storehouse. When he got there, gruff men leered at him. He knew they would have killed him if they wanted to, but Nathan wasn't really concerned with that. "Cedric Mallory sent me," he said, his voice even and authoritative. He wasn't there to play tricks, or one-up anyone, or get on anyone's good or bad side. It was a job. He just wanted some better drapes for the living room. No one seemed to question why Cedric Mallory was having some pimple-faced sixteen-year-old in a neck brace do transport for him.

When he brought the briefcase to point C, a hotel room on the outskirts of Dublin, Cedric Mallory was waiting for him.

"Nice job, mate, nice job," hummed Cedric as he counted the contents of the briefcase. He sat at a fold-out table, counting the cash in bundles while his two guards hovered over either of Nathan's shoulders, even all the way from the door. Cedric struck Nathan as kind of a strange man. He was huge, first of all, and covered with scars and tattoos. But the scars seemed as though they were from incidental things, like the one over his brow which easily could have been from knocking his head on a doorjamb. His tattoos, as well, seemed less like a way to show off how hardcore he was, and more a product of a simple fondness for tattoos. His knuckles said "LOVE" and "LIFE" on them, and a bundle of black-and-white flowers spanned from his neck to the side of his head. As he fussed over the contents of the briefcase, Nathan decided that Cedric Mallory was, all in all, a pretty cool dude.

Cedric tossed two bundles of cash on the table, easily a thousand Americans. "Here you go, mate. Your cut for a simple job done clean an' concise," he said.

Nathan scooped them off the table and tucked them into his coat. "Is that all?"

"If you want it to be, and yer willin' to keep yer fuckin' mouth shut about our operation," said Cedric Mallory, slamming the briefcase shut. He leaned over the folding table, his eyes – a soft hazel color – fixed on Nathan like a hawk. "But here's the thing, mate – the man I work for, his enterprise is expandin' all the time. It's historic, and respectable work for folks like us, you see? We ain't some ragtag team of mobsters and criminals, no. We's businessmen. Entrepreneurs. We's got us a business to look after here, and we ain't always gonna be alive to take care of it."

"What are you saying?" asked Nathan.

Cedric leaned back and pressed his hands together so his fingers intertwined. "LOVE" and "LIFE" turned into "LIOFVEE."

"What I'm sayin' is I like you, O'Riley. I believe in you. I think I can trust you. I think you can handle just about anything I can sling yer way, and you'd take it in stride." He nodded to Nathan's coat, where he'd just stashed his payment. "Twelve-hundred Americans is just the beginning. You think your drapes are awful? Think about this: your whole house is shit. Put yerself and yer old mum in a nice cottage in the countryside, or in an upscale townhouse, or build yerself a mansion in the Caribbean with whores for you and wine and handsome young men for her."

Cedric pulled another folder out of his coat and dropped it on the table. "Work with us, mate. We could use lads like you who know what's important."

Nathan took a step towards the table and picked the folder up. This one was labeled "AGREEMENT" in those tidy letters he would soon come to recognize as Cedric Mallory's own handwriting. He opened it, eyes scanning it quickly to get the gist of it.

"The Fowls?" he murmured as he read.

Cedric Mallory nodded. "Most of what you hear of 'em is horseshit, of course. But every now and then there's some journalist who knows their asshole from their kisser and spreads somethin' close to true. Make no mistake, though, the Fowls ain't ever goin' anywhere. Anything a journalist has to say about the Fowls, they've got enough money to get anyone in the world turn a deaf ear to it. Police. Judges. The goddamn President of this goddamn island. And if they don't do what the Fowls say..." Cedric drew his index finger across his neck. "You get the point."

A beat passed.

"It's good work. It's a respectable name. You in?"

Nathan looked over the agreement. He thought of his shitty house, his shitty drapes, his mom's shitty car and her shitty orthopedic shoes she couldn't afford to replace. He thought of the money in his breast pocket and how simple it had come. He gazed down at the bottom of the agreement, where a line was printed, awaiting his signature.

Nathan grinned. "Get me a fuckin' pen."

-O-

Nathan was abruptly roused from his doze by the sound of the door being locked. He opened his eyes, squinting in the darkness to make out the two figures who had entered his hospital room. One was tall, broad, larger than Cedric or any other man Nathan had seen – except the one named Butler who followed the kid around. The other was slender, his pale blue eyes seeming to emanate frost.

"Who...?" began Nathan.

"Nathan O'Riley, how good to see that you're well," said the slender man. He walked over to the window and threw the curtains open, bathing the hospital bedroom in warm light from the setting sun. It was like Nathan was broken out of a trance – the man seemed far less sinister, and the tall one far more familiar. The gears turned in Nathan's head, finally recognizing those eyes.

"Artemis Fowl," he breathed.

Artemis Sr. grinned. "The very same. Mr. Butler, would you please get me a chair? I intend to be here for a while."

"Your son," said Nathan, not waiting for Artemis Sr. to sit down. "I tried to stop them, but they shot me – they shot me twice, right here." Nathan pointed to the space between his sternum and his gut.

Artemis Sr. frowned a bit, settling into the seat. "You aren't dead, though. Isn't that interesting?"

"Yeah, but – look, I don't really know how I'm still alive. I should be dead, I know, like everyone else," Nathan said. His throat caught at the memory. Cedric. Cedric was dead. He took a deep breath. "But, yeah, um, Artemis. Little Artemis, um..."

"Get to the point, O'Riley," said Artemis Sr.. "I have a wife at home in utter hysteria, and if I can't have my son back, I would at least like a funeral for him and every single individual bastard responsible for this." His tone was even, but it made Nathan's guts squirm.

"Alright, alright, sorry," said Nathan. He took a deep breath. "Okay, so, everything was fine while we were coming into St. Petersburg..."


	5. ActionReaction

Everything was fine while we were coming into St. Petersburg. It was dark out, as per our intention, but the light from the stars was plenty to see by. It just wasn't enough for anyone on shore to see us.

"That was the little shit's idea," Cedric grumbled.

"Was it also his idea to veer off course from the city?" I asked. I'd noticed it a while ago, and bringing it up to the captain had earned me little more than a scoff. I worried that the kid was somehow botching the job, giving out tyrannical, ill-considered orders all willy-nilly.

"It was," said Cedric.

He must have seen my expression. He clapped me on the back, hard enough almost to throw me overboard. "Perk up, mate! Little shit explained the change in plan to us. Unforeseen police activity at the port. We're gonna sneak up the coast, drop the product off, and get our asses back to the docks and check in all legal-like. No red flags, no risk."

Something didn't sound right.

"Why would the mob let the police skulk around the port the same night we're scheduled to show up?" I asked. I heard this kid was supposed to be smart, but to me it looked like he was shipping us to our downfall. I couldn't tell what exactly was giving me that feeling, though. Things just didn't add up.

Cedric shrugged. "Hell if I know, mate. Look, we're coming up on the new droppoint. Remember what I told you?"

I nodded.

Cedric's eyes narrowed as if he didn't believe me. He leaned in, close, and said to me, "These bastards aren't our friends. They don't rely on us. We do this kinda business with 'em because it keeps 'em in fuckin' line, and it keeps the fuckin' money moving. But if they went batshit in a moment and decided they was sick of the Fowls, they wouldn't waste a goddamn second. If they do lose it, remember-"

"Calm and quick. Action is quicker than reaction." Cedric had told me that the night I first killed a man, ten months earlier.

He clapped me on the back again, but this time I was ready for it, and kept my footing. "Good lad. We'll be there in a moment. What do you say we get down to the boats and count our bullets?" said Cedric. I smiled, and followed after him. The nagging fear that something was amiss tailed after me like a lost dog, but wasn't sure what to do with it. Cedric always told me to trust my gut. But my gut was telling me to jump ship, and it was a long swim home.

-O-

"You could tell something was off?" asked Artemis Sr..

Nathan flinched at his tone. "I told you, it was just this nagging feeling. I figured I was just nervous because it was my first job so far from home," he said. "Look, if I'd known it was gonna end the way it did-"

He was cut off. "I didn't come here for what-if's," said Artemis Sr.. "Please, continue."

Nathan took a long, shuddering breath. "Anyway, so, when we got to shore..."

-O-

When we got to shore, the Russians were waiting for us. We all came up in two boats, one with me, Cedric, this grizzled old fella Michael, and the box, and another with the kid, his bodyguard, and the twins. I watched the kid while we rowed over. I knew he was the heir to this criminal empire and all that, but he barely looked older than ten, and was already dealing with the Russians?

" _Dobryy vecher!"_ the kid said as we reached the shore.

The Russians, leaning against tree stumps and mounds of dirt, didn't respond. There were a dozen of them, and at least half had machine guns resting across their laps. That sent alarm bells ringing in my head, until I remembered we were all armed as well.

 _Calm and quiet. Action is quicker than reaction._ But we were outnumbered almost two-to-one.

" _Ty segodnya khorosho?"_ the kid asked. His bodyguard – Butler – helped him out of the boat, and the twins followed.

One Russian, a squat little man with a large mustache and a gut swollen large and round from too much alcohol, stepped forward. "Shut up with your pigeon speak, boy. We will do business, only business," he said.

The boy seem to freeze mid-step, putting on a pinched smile as if his plans for the evening had been drastically altered. "Of course, my apologies. I'm afraid my Russian isn't the greatest, nor even the most passable," he said. "Well, if your prerogative is to keep this meeting as short and sweet as possible, I believe it would only be proper to give you the goods."

He turned to face me and the others on the boat. "Cedric, Michael, Nathan, would you please bring the crate to our business partners?"

I was kind of startled. I hadn't even realized the kid knew our names, let alone mine.

With Cedric and Michael, I helped hoist the crate out of the boat and carry it over to the Russians. We set it down in front of them, and another Russian – this one was a big guy with a terrible scar all the way down his face – brought a crowbar to pry it open. The pot-bellied one leaned over the side of the crate, nostrils flaring.

"This is all?"

The kid nodded. "Yes, all that you've ordered, and all that we've brought with us," confirmed the kid.

The Russian took a package out of the crate, inspecting it closely. "How many?"

"One thousand, four hundred, and forty. Individually packaged, and filled to the brim with product. Fresh from Columbia," said the kid, his voice as growing colder as he spoke, as if some gnawing feeling of uncertainty was blooming in his gut as well. "Exactly as you ordered."

The Russian with the pot belly spat into the dirt. " _Khuynya,"_ he said. I didn't have any clue what it meant, but judging from the kid's face, he did.

"I'm... I'm sorry, sir, is there something amiss?" he asked.

The Russians were murmuring to each other, speaking so low and so fast that I would have been shocked if even they knew what they were saying. My fingers twitched beside the trigger of my gun. I thought I saw Cedric on edge as well. Most people fine solace in knowing others are thinking the exact same thing they are. In this case, it scared the shit out of me.

The pot-bellied Russian turned to face the kid again. "You are right, boy. This is everything all that I have ordered." He extended a long, bony hand to the kid. "Please, we will shake on it. Like business. You are young, yes? Must learn business proper?"

The kid seemed to hesitate, but maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Ultimately he reached out and took the Russian's hand.

That was when everything went to hell.

-O-

Artemis Sr. realized he was leaning forward in his seat. He cleared his throat, leaning back again, almost embarrassed. He didn't think Nathan noticed – the boy's eyes were fixed on some spot on his blankets, glassy with memory.

Nathan suddenly began speaking again. "I think it was Butler who shot first."

-O-

The bullet hit the pot-bellied man squarely in the forehead, so quick that he hadn't even finished drawing his own gun with which to hold the kid hostage. His body toppled over the kid, pinning him to the dirt. I didn't get a chance to tell him to count his lucky stars, because the next thing I knew, gunshots were ringing out left and right.

I fired my gun, and I suppose I didn't aim very well because of how freaked out I was. Normally I'd be cool as a cucumber in any situation – I don't even think my pulse changed the first time I killed a man – but maybe it was something about know how utterly and completely fucked I was that sent me into a panic.

If I didn't recognize them, I shot them.

In the corner of my eye, I saw Cedric fall, red trailing after. I shouldn't have jerked, but I did. I wanted to be sure he was fine, or at least not totally dead.

Pain burst in my torso the moment I took my eyes off of the Russians. I cried out as I fell, instinctively clutching my wound.

I was laying in the shallow water, stuck to the ground by mud. I still had my machine gun – I took a few more shots at the guys, but by strength left me and I dropped it. It hit the entry wound, hard, sending searing pain all throughout my body.

"Fuck!" I gasped, shoving the gun off of me.

I shouldn't have yelled. A Russian, the one with the scar, came over to me. He put another bullet in me, right next to the first one. I must have blacked out, or at least what happened next is a mystery to me.

When I regained my senses, the Russians were gone, along with the crate and the kid. I could see the aftermath of the shootout in the starlight. The twins, laying in a pile, Butler slumped over a fallen log, and – right beside me, head underwater – was Cedric.

I made some kind of sound, not one I can recall ever making before, and I don't think I'll ever see anything horrible enough to make it again. But it forced its way out of me like a wounded animal, which is how I crawled over to Cedric... Cedric's body.

"No, no, no, no, no," I said, hoarse, as I army-crawled the short distance to him.

Somehow I managed to turn him so that his head was out of the water. If the bullet hadn't killed him, he'd certainly drowned by now. I held his face in two hands, hot tears streaming down my cheeks as I gazed at that gruff, tattooed face – now bloated and pale.

"Holy shit," I whispered. "Cedric, no, why? Why? Jesus Christ..."

"Hey."

At first I didn't recognize the voice. I jumped, flipping myself around so I was leaning against Cedric's body. I found the source not but a stone's throw away, sitting against the log with a hand clamped over the bullet wound in his chest. Butler. _Holy shit, he's immortal,_ I thought.

"Bullet missed my heart," said Butler. He spoke with the same level, well-projected calmness I had heard the few other times he'd spoken in my presence. I could hear something in it now, though. He was growing weaker. "Maybe by two inches, or less. Stay on your back. There's no exit wound, so you won't bleed out as quickly."

"Fucking giddy. That's what I want. More of this," I said through tears. I gestured at the bloody scene around us. "I'd rather be dead than – than _this."_

He didn't seem to believe me. "They took Artemis. Somewhere called the _Solenaya Shlyukha,_ if my Russian serves me. A ship of some sort, from what they were saying."

I couldn't believe it. "We're dying. Cedric's dead. The twins are dead. And you're thinking about that _brat?"_

His eyes narrowed. I realized it was the first time I ever really looked him in the eyes. I had to turn away. "I'll be dead soon, anyway," I murmured. "And so will you, be honest. The kid's done for."

"I won't just let them take him."

"It's not about what you will or won't let them do!" I said. "They're gone, we're dead, and they're going to get away with it and it's all for nothing." I turned over as best I could, burying my face in Cedric's hollow chest. "I'm just... so fucking tired, okay?"

Butler didn't respond, which freaked me out a bit. Out of curiosity, I craned my neck to look at him. He was still there, white-faced, eyes closed, arm limp. The bullet wound in his chest was left exposed, pumping out more red with each feeble beat of his heart.

I shoved my face back against Cedric's chest, more tears welling up in my eyes.

 _Father,_ I thought. Or maybe I whispered it, like a wish.

-O-

"I fell asleep, I think," said Nathan. "I woke up a few hours later. Butler was gone."

A long moment of silence passed between Nathan, Mr. Butler, and Artemis Sr.. It was only when it turned seven o'clock and the lights automatically turned on that anyone spoke again.

"You say you were bleeding out through two bullet wounds in your torso," said Artemis Sr.. His eyes hovered over the spot where Nathan had indicated earlier. "You fell asleep facing downward against Mallory. Artemis's Butler, as well, had a bullet wound above his heart and was bleeding to death. How far were you from St. Petersburg?"

Nathan twitched under Artemis Sr.'s gaze. "I dunno, fifty miles?"

"At what time of night?"

"I mean, we got there at around ten-thirty, I guess."

"Uh-huh," Artemis Sr. said, rubbing his chin and hoping Nathan would be able to guess he wasn't actually thinking about it too hard. "It seems quite miraculous that you're alive, given that you were practically dead and anyone who might have helped you was fast asleep, or miles away."

Nathan bit his lip, looking around the hospital room as if there were something there that could help him. Of course he didn't find anything. "Well, I mean, I respect you, Mr. Fowl, so I guess the least I can do is tell you what I remember," he said.

Artemis Sr. nodded. "Go on. Regale me with your tale of how you survived this... _shootout."_

Nathan began gazing into mid-air, his eyes cloudy and somewhat confused as he tried to put the pieces together. "It was... an angel," he said softly.

Artemis Sr. could have laughed out loud, if he wasn't so pissed.

"An angel," he parroted. Artemis Sr. glanced over to Mr. Butler, who could only give a slight shrug. He turned back to Nathan. "An angel. What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure what she was, anyway," said Nathan, "but she came out of the trees, all gentle-like. She stood over me and said..."

-O-

 _That's the thing that sucks about people you love: they always wind up dead. But I don't think this fella here would've wanted you to follow him into his grave, y'know? See his knuckles? Love life. Not that great aesthetically, but, hey, he has a point._

-O-

"She put her hands against my wounds after that," Nathan continued, rubbing his torso through the hospital gown. "And she did a... a spell, I guess. It hurt – I could feel the bullets being drawn out of my skin – but it looked _beautiful._ I figured she must have helped Butler, too, otherwise his body would have been there when I woke up again."

Artemis Sr. looked over to Mr. Butler openly now, checking to see if he was hearing the same thing he was. Judging by his perplexed expression, he was, and had the same opinion about it.

"This can't be true. How could you possibly be alive right now?" demanded Artemis Sr., his patience with Nathan O'Riley waning thin.

"It has to be true!" said Nathan, sitting up in his bed. "An angel – a witch – a fairy – something – something healed me, and probably Butler, and that's why I'm alive. See?" Nathan got on his knees in the hospital bed and hoisted his gown up, exposing his torso to Artemis Sr. and Mr. Butler. Both recoiled a bit, but Artemis Sr. saw something through the gap in his fingers that made him drop his hand and look closer.

Two scars, right beside one another, between his sternum and his gut. They were shiny, and raised, but obviously fully healed, and had obviously come from near-fatal wounds.

Artemis Sr. raked his brain for information on Nathan O'Riley. The boy had been to this very same hospital several times in the two years since becoming Cedric Mallory's apprentice. Never, in any report, did Artemis Sr. recall reading about an injury or preexisting scar that corresponded to what he was looking at in that very moment.

The gears began to shit in his head.

Artemis Sr. stood.

"Thank you, Mr. O'Riley. You've been very helpful," he said.

Before Nathan could react, he and Mr. Butler were making their way out of the the hospital. In the parking garage, Mr. Butler checked the car for explosives and other such things, and the next thing Artemis Sr. knew, they were on the road.

 _An angel – a witch – a fairy – something –_

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Artemis Sr. leaped out of his skin. "Excuse me?"

Mr. Butler watched him in the rear-view mirror with the same dark blue eyes as his niece and nephew. "The boy's story. Do you buy it?"

Artemis Sr. settled down in the back seat. "It is plausible."

"You know which part I'm talking about."

Artemis Sr.'s eyes flashed up to the front row. Mr. Butler looked entirely focused on the road, but he could feel the concern radiating off of him like a furnace. "What, the fairy part?" scoffed Artemis Sr.. "Of course not, Mr. Butler. He likely was hallucinating while an unlikely passerby took him to a nearby medical center."

"Then where did my nephew go?"

"Healed at the same medical center, and he chased after Artemis. He is fiercely dedicated, your nephew." _And probably dead,_ he didn't say.

Mr. Butler didn't seem concerned with the latter possibility, or at least he didn't show it. "All I'm saying is, I know you, sir. You're drawn to grand – and unlikely, if not outright impossible – notions."

Artemis Sr. scoffed, but Mr. Butler's comment struck a certain chord with him. He tried not to let that on, though. "You've known me since I was a tot, Mr. Butler, and remember my youthful passions with an uncanny clarity," said Artemis Sr.. "And yes, before you ask, I really do no longer believe in fairies."

Mr. Butler chortled. A rare sound now, but it characterized much of Artemis Sr.'s childhood. He couldn't help but smile, if only bit.

 _An angel – a fairy –_

 _A fairy._


	6. The Golden Goose

A loud pounding roused Artemis from his uneasy sleep. He sat up in his cot, which was already stained – from what, he wasn't sure, because only he ever used it – and hurriedly shoved his feet into his boots. This was his new morning routine. At sunrise, a man Artemis came to know as Mihkel would drag him out of his prison and take him around to the Piss Path – as the men called it. If Artemis wasn't ready to go immediately when Mihkel opened the door, he would be dragged down to the Piss Path without any boots and made to do his business just the same.

It was a massive pain in the neck.

Artemis just got his boot strapped – still groggy from weeks of poor sleep – when the circular door swung open and Mihkel strode into the prison.

"Come on, birdy-boy," sang Mihkel. Mihkel didn't know much English, but had learned that phrase from one of his partners-in-crime specifically to taunt Artemis. "Who lives on Pissing Lane!"

 _Ah, his vocabulary is expanding,_ thought Artemis. He apparently wasn't fast enough in getting out of bed, because Mihkel leaped forward and grabbed Artemis by the scruff of his jacket and yanked him towards the door. "Come on, birdy-boy," said Mihkel again. He leaned so that he could speak in Artemis's ear: " _Ili ya ub'yu tebya." Or I will kill you._

Artemis tried to look little more than annoyed. In the four weeks he'd been held prisoner there, he didn't think they had figured out how well he could actually speak Russian. They thought his understanding extended to basic phrases and miscellaneous business jargon. In fact, Artemis had been studying the language for a year or so before his father sent him on the dreaded mission that landed him here, and he had a near-fluent grasp of Russian.

But if any one of his captors figured that out, he could pretty much say goodbye to any chance he had of escaping this god-forsaken place. Salted Whore, they called it. Artemis didn't know why. Maybe out of resentment.

There was another man on Piss Path when Mihkel and Artemis got there, Vladilen, a stout little man with a shock of black hair and eyes too large for his head. He was the chef. Artemis had heard him singing drunkenly on the floor below his prison the previous night, and it seemed he was taking all morning to empty his bladder. He had done this every week for as long as Artemis had been there.

" _Vlad, what are you doing out of the kitchen, you son of a bitch?"_ asked Mihkel in Russian. " _Back to the pots and pans, where your sort belongs. And fold my laundry, too."_

The men laughed. " _Careful, you might get a rat in your soup,"_ said Vladilen.

" _Better than half the shit that comes out of your kitchen."_ Mihkel gave Artemis a shove towards the line of yellow spots. Artemis unzipped his pants and got down to business, keeping half an ear on Mihkel and Vladilen's conversation, waiting for his chance.

" _I've got a girl in Moscow who cooks the best goddamn beef stew you ever had,"_ Mihkel said wistfully.

" _Who, your mother?"_

Mihkel gave him a punch. " _No, dickhead. My mother lives near St. Petersburg. You know that."_

" _Geez, it's called a joke, Mihkel."_

Mihkel went on. " _Mm, Anzhela's stew. Delicious. But you want to know what of Anzhela's tastes even better?"_

Vladlien snickered, and Mihkel punched him again. " _Shut the fuck up, Vlad. I'm talking about her desserts."_

" _So am I!"_ said Vladlien with a bark of laughter.

Artemis sensed a shouting match, and decided this was as good a chance as he would ever get. He finished up while Mihkel was yelling something about respecting his Moscow girl, and began walking slowly, quietly back towards the Salted Whore.

One step. Two steps. Three, four, five, six...

" _Maybe you should go to Moscow and get your own girl and then I'll talk about her like that to your face, huh?"_ Mihkel was saying.

Seven, eight, nine...

" _Maybe I'll go to Moscow and get a dozen, and I'll have the balls to kill anyone who yells at me for complimenting them,"_ retorted Vladlien.

Ten, eleven, twelve...

Artemis rounded the corner, and broke into a run.

Around the ship. Up the ramp. Across the deck. Down the stairs. He reached his floor, but went further down. Second floor down. He froze, waiting to see if any one had heard him. If he strained his ears, he could hear Mihkel and Vladlien yelling. He couldn't tell if they'd noticed he'd gone, or if they were already declaring how they planned to kill him.

It didn't matter. So far, it seemed everyone else was still in bed.

Artemis crept down the hall, as quiet as he could be. Butler had shown him the trick to it when Artemis was little, how to balance his weight between his feet so he stayed steady and quiet in equal parts.

Artemis felt a pang in his heart. He cursed himself for letting his mind actively stray towards Butler again, and tried to push all thoughts of his bodyguard out of his head. Focus. This was life or death.

The kitchen was a large room at the end of the hall. Artemis listened for anyone inside, then tried the door. He slung it open, trying to emulate the aggressive nature with which Vladlien did everything. He ducked inside and slammed it behind him – as the Salted Whore's resident chef was want to do after his morning piss.

Artemis took a breath, his heart pounding in his ears.

A weapon. He needed a weapon. Specifically a knife. He knew Vladlien had a gun in his bedroom, but Artemis had a far better use for that than what he intended to do with the knife.

He immediately got to work, searching through drawers and cabinets and even the oven as loud as he could. If Vladlien were nearby, he might notice the noise, but everyone who slept on the lower floor would wake up confused if they didn't hear the familiar sound of metallic abuse from the kitchen. Plus, it was a lot quicker than being careful, and Artemis did not have a lot of time.

Artemis found a collection of pocket knives in a drawer beside the stove. He rifled through them swiftly, looking for one both reasonably sharp and large. He found it – a bowie knife with a red handle. Artemis inspected the edge, folded it closed, and shoved it as best he could down the back of his pants.

His gaze turned to the port on the far side of the kitchen, leading to Vladlien's quarters. All he needed now was his decoy.

Artemis ran over to the door and slung it open. Footsteps thundered above him as the other Russians were roused from their sleep and ordered to "find that little cocksucker." Artemis ignored it – it didn't matter if he actually found the gun, as long as the Russians realized he was looking for it. He tore up Vladlien's cot, threw his books off of the shelves, yanked the drawers out of his desk and strew their contents about the room. It looked like a hurricane had blown through the place.

" _On zdes'! On zdes'!"_ They found him – and Artemis found his decoy.

The man with the scar stormed into the room right as Artemis was reaching for the glock taped to the wall beneath Vladlien's cot. He grabbed Artemis by the back of the coat and hoisted him so suddenly that Artemis didn't have time to withdraw his arm. The man slammed Artemis against the wall, and the next thing he knew, there was a gun pressed against his chin, and cigarette breath blowing in his face.

" _He was after my gun, the bastard was after my gun,"_ said Vladlien, coming up behind the man with the scar. " _He heard me shouting at Sasha for messing with it the other night. He was going to try to kill us, don't you see? And he speaks Russian, he must! What else does he know about?"_

The man with the scar jerked his head around, silencing Vladlien. Many of the others, Mihkel included, cringed too. They'd all crowded together in the kitchen, all twenty-odd of them, to see what all the fuss was about.

" _I will deal with the child,"_ said the man with the scar. " _You will all watch your fucking tongues around him. He is a sneaky son of a bitch."_ He turned his eyes to Artemis, fixing him with a penetrating stare. " _Aren't you?"_

Artemis gulped.

The man with the scar carried Artemis by the back of the coat up the stairs. He opened the door to his prison, and thrust Artemis inside. Artemis landed on his buttocks, the bowie knife pressing uncomfortably into his hide. He let out a short little sound – something between a groan and a grunt – of pain, but the man with the scar didn't think anything of it.

"Don't do that shit again," was all the man with the scar said, before the circular door slammed in Artemis's face.

Artemis could hear them jabbering outside in Russian, and although he could scarcely make out their words, he knew exactly what they were talking about. _What do you plan to do, scar-face? Will you beat him? Flay him? Hang him off the ship by his ankles?_

Whatever they decided, it certainly wouldn't kill Artemis. If Artemis died, their whole operation would die with him.

He was their hostage, their golden goose.

 _But soon,_ Artemis thought, grinning madly as he pulled the bowie knife out of his pants, _soon that'll all change._


	7. Journals 2

_Wednesday, 4:45 AM_

 _I cannot sleep. Angeline will not face me, nor will she even attempt to stifle her dour disposition. She wears only black, drinks only wine, and speaks to me only when absolutely necessary. Worse still, I am no closer to locating my son._

 _My Butler has run a search on all ships, Russian and otherwise, by the name of_ Solenaya Shlyukha, _and has thus far come up with little more than a few personal fishing boats and an upcoming project for a sarcastic cruise ship. We've looked into these, and nothing seems terribly promising. Juliet suggested that the Russians may be attempting to convert him to their side with "Caribbean cruise ship fun," but my Butler says she is being facetious._

 _I continue to turn Nathan O'Riley's story over in my head day and night, specifically the most outlandish part of it, which I refuse to write down here simply because it is almost too ludicrous to think. It has caused me much distress. When I do sleep, I dream of creatures from my childhood, the mystical sort that captivated my imagination for a nearly inappropriate number of years. I was thirteen when I finally conceded that no such creatures exist, and I have been careful not to cultivate a similar fascination in my Artemis. He has always been interested in such things, of course – partly of my own doing – but his realism has always overpowered his imagination._

 _Realism and imagination, I do wish I knew which would be more useful in getting my boy home._


	8. Theoretically

Artemis was already awake and in his boots when Mihkel banged on his door.

" _You better have your fucking boots on, you little shit!"_ Mihkel shouted through the door. Mihkel, along with many other of the Russians, was convinced Artemis knew perfectly well what they were saying. Artemis had been working on wearing down their suspicion with total obliviousness, but it was a slow and unrewarding process. At least Artemis didn't have to worry about this particular Russian knowing how much he understood.

The door opened and Mihkel came in with the rope. After his attempt to shoot up the Salted Whore, as they believed it to be, they kept Artemis on a leash whenever they took him out to Piss Path. Artemis grimaced at the sight of it. He knew his little stunt was going to have consequences, but being walked like a dog hadn't occurred to him.

It was no matter.

Mihkel fastened the rope around Artemis's neck like a noose, then gave him a bit of a shove to get him going. Artemis needed no more encouragement, walking leisurely down the hall towards the stairs.

" _You're a piece of fucking work, you know that?"_ grumbled Mihkel.

Artemis pretended not to understand, retaining his pace as he and Mihkel strode across the deck of the ship and down the ramp.

They rounded the corner to Piss Path, which was deserted except for them. The man with the scar had deemed Piss Path a strictly desolate area after Artemis's "escape attempt." No one was allowed to be there when Mihkel brought Artemis to Piss Path, lest they pose some sort of distraction to him.

Which was all fine and dandy with Artemis, of course.

Artemis was halfway through his morning piss when Mihkel started blabbing. That was Mihkel's greatest fault – his tendency towards conversation. Artemis intended to make full use of it.

" _I don't know why they don't chain you up in the brig and feed you to rats,"_ said Mihkel. " _If I ran this place, we wouldn't even bother holding you hostage. We'd sell you to the Arabians for sex like_ that." He snapped his fingers to emphasize just how quickly he would have Artemis sold to the Arabians for sex.

Artemis grinned. " _Come on, now. There isn't enough money in all of the Middle East to match what my family would pay for my safe return."_

Mihkel jumped, dropping the rope and falling backwards into the perpetually-yellow snow.

" _Holy shit,"_ said Mihkel. " _You do speak Russian! I knew it!"_

Artemis zipped his pants up and pulled the noose off of his head. " _Quiet, Mihkel. We were talking about money, remember? It's a subject I happen to be particularly well-versed in,"_ said Artemis. He'd spent hours in his prison, quietly practicing his accent under his breath for this moment. He had to make it work, and it wouldn't work if Mihkel was shouting about how he most definitely knew that Artemis knew how to speak Russian. Not convenient.

" _I – what do you mean?"_ asked Mihkel, fixing Artemis with a curious gaze.

Artemis tucked his hands into his coat pockets, trying to look as casual as possible. " _Allow me to explain, please. And don't cut me off and go running to any of your comrades before I finish, because listening could be incredibly beneficial to you,"_ said Artemis. " _Selling me into the sex trade makes a lot of money, and fast. You know this. Your employer knows this. Everyone in the Salted Whore knows this. Am I correct?"_

Mihkel nodded. " _I... suppose..."_

" _And yet, everyone has universally agreed that they are not going to do that. Why? Ransoming me to my family is a long process – my father is a man of great resolution, and would sooner burn the world down looking for me than simply paying to get me back. This is known. It is what makes him such a – how to say it? - a big fucking deal."_ The curse had come out unintentionally, but Artemis ignored it. It felt proper, after spending so many weeks with these foul-mouthed Russians.

" _Money. You said so yourself. Your father's got more money than the whole world could spend in the next hundred years if they drank champagne for breakfast every fucking day,"_ Mihkel said.

Artemis smiled the way a teacher smiles at a student struggling to grasp a simple concept. Exasperated, but nurturing. " _Exactly. But whatever you all get for the ransom will be divided between twenty... twenty-three...?"_

" _Twenty-seven, plus the men who survived your abduction, paying off the police, and consolations for the family's of the deceased,"_ said Mihkel, his voice growing more and more bitter. " _So, it will be divided between a_ lot _of people."_

Mihkel's eye flashed up towards Artemis. " _Are you... making me an offer?"_ he asked.

Artemis shrugged. " _Oh, let's not put labels on anything. We're just speaking theoretically. Theoretically, if someone were to bring me back to my family unharmed – well, my parents would be over the moon. I don't think my rescuer would have to worry about money, or sharing it with anyone, for the rest of their lives."_

The look on Mihkel's face told Artemis he was unconvinced. He didn't leap at the offer – for that was what it was – but neither, noted Artemis, did he get up from his spot in the snow. " _What would someone have to do, theoretically, to sneak you out of a place like this?"_ wondered Mihkel. " _We have a few snowmobiles, but they're the loudest sons of bitches on the planet, and we're hundreds of miles from civilization. If someone were to, theoretically, try to sneak you out, certainly the twenty-six others would cut his throat before his boot could touch the snow."_

Artemis smirked. " _Oh, theoretically, one man could never do it. But if, say, maybe three banded together, they could theoretically convince three more each, and perhaps that would – theoretically – be enough to kill anyone still married to the idea of ransoming me."_

Artemis let that sit in the air between them, satisfied by the look on Mihkel's face. He had him. Like a rat in a trap. " _Anyway, this has been a fairly lengthy piss break,"_ Artemis said, stooping to pick the rope back up. He fixed the noose around his neck again, tossing the other end to Mihkel. " _What do you say we meander on back to my cell and lock me in the cold and the dark for several hours?"_

Mihkel scrambled to his feet, scooping up the end of the rope and starting back towards the Salted Whore. " _Yeah, sounds good,"_ Mihkel said. He locked eyes with Artemis, a small grin playing on his lips. " _Sounds_ real _good."_


End file.
